To move would be to admit my weakness.
Professor Lambert enters, and class begins. I don’t even know what she’s talking about, I’m so distracted. My neck hurts from straining not to turn my head and look at Baylor. It’s a lost cause, I know. But I try my hardest to hold out for as long as I can. Have I mentioned that I’m screwed?
FOUR WEEKS INTO the semester and I still get the cold shoulder from Miss Jones. At this point, I’ve lost all game and have no idea how to get it back. I wish I could figure Anna out like I can football.
Football has always come easy for me. Don’t get me wrong, I work my ass off to keep in top condition. What free time I have between practice and classes goes to working out or studying. I ignore physical pain and mental exhaustion on a constant basis.
But when it comes to the game? Effortless. Gripping the ball fills me with power. During a game, I don’t fear the three hundred pound linebacker trying to take me out. I control my pocket, see paths, openings, opportunities. I talk to the ball and it listens, going where I want it to go more often than not. If no opportunity presents itself, I find one, running the ball, avoiding the hit, until I can make a play. It’s that simple.
And it’s fucking fantastic. The roar of the crowds, the victories, they’re addictive. But never as addictive as the need to do it all again, throw that perfect pass, trick the defense with a brilliant handoff or pass fake. Because I can always do better. So, yeah, football is my joy. And I know how lucky I am to have found it, that I have the talent to be one of the best. If there was one thing my parents hammered into me, it was to appreciate what I have.
All of which makes Anna Jones’s disdain more irritating. She thinks I’m vain, a meathead. I should stay clear of her. There are tons of women who want to get to know me—kind of goes with the territory.
I still don’t even know what it is about her that gets to me. She is pretty, luscious even, with the classic looks of a vintage pin-up girl. Heart-shaped face, a pert little nose, dark red curls that tumble around her shoulders. But she isn’t my usual type. Normally I prefer a girl who doesn’t look at me as though I’m a hair that snuck into her salad.
So why can’t I get Jones out of my head? All I can see these days are her eyes glaring at me, not giving a shit about the glossy veneer of my fame—hating it, in fact. And it turns me on.
So here I am, slouched in my seat, watching her arms wave and her sweet breasts bounce as she discusses philosophy’s impact on society.
“Take Descartes,” she’s saying. “His move from trying to explain the ‘why’ of a question to observing the ‘how,’ helped forge modern scientific method. In antiquity, philosophers changed our world by constantly questioning the status quo.”
Because I want her to acknowledge me, I speak up. “I agree.”
Anna’s dark green eyes cut into me with one glare. Then, as if she realizes that glaring at me means an acknowledgement, she reins it in and gives me her profile, facing forward once more.
She clearly doesn’t like it when I take her side. Hell, she doesn’t like it when I join any conversation she’s involved in. It’s like I insult her just by speaking. Which pisses me off and makes me want to do it some more.
“Take his argument on dualism, that the mind not only controls the body but that the body can control the mind.” I find myself grinning, watching Anna’s tension rise, as I lower my voice, directing it toward her. “That one’s passions can overtake rational thought and prompt them to act in irrational ways.”
Anna’s focus stays on Professor Lambert, but beneath her desk, her legs cross then uncross. Clearly, I’ve made an impression on her. Good. Now we’re even.